


if the door opens up, we go where it leads

by Anonymous



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol, Boats and Ships, Drunk Sex, First Time, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 13:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6472708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Gansey wants is not to be afraid anymore. He wants the whole world of things he’s always been afraid of to open up to him.</p><p>(listen: I've been saying for months that someone needs to write fic where Gansey has a mortality freakout and processes it through trashy sex with Henry Cheng, and no one did, so I guess the job has fallen to me)</p>
            </blockquote>





	if the door opens up, we go where it leads

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so I heard there were some spoilers that leaked about Henry; I haven't read them and I don't want to know!! So if you're kind enough to leave a comment, please help me preserve my innocence. Thank you!! Super thanks to Zee for the beta.
> 
> Getting this out just a few weeks before TRK comes out and probably wrecks all my speculative Henry characterization.

“There’s still one thing we need to talk about,” Adam says. His angular face looks even sharper in the dim light coming through the frosted glass window wall of Monmouth Manufacturing. “The wish.”

“We’re going to use it to save Noah,” Gansey says.

The suggestion falls into the room like a stone into a pond. Everyone is quiet. Noah’s quiet is more urgent than the others. He shrinks into himself, his fingertips flickering uncertainly. Only Ronan seems unaffected, although it’s unclear if it’s because he’s out of the loop or because he has thicker skin than most.

“To bring Noah back,” Adam says, his voice low. He stops just short of elucidating the difference: it’s too late to _save_ Noah.

Gansey waves a hand. “Right,” he says. “We agreed.” There’s something hard in his voice. They agreed to use the wish for Noah, and if anyone has other plans, they should say them to Gansey’s face. His heart pounds, a sick, relentless thudding that he can almost taste in the back of his throat. He tries hard to pretend he doesn’t know why everyone is staring at him. Tries to stay in the last moments of uncertainty before someone says it.

“Gansey,” Blue says, her voice so quiet it’s more like a breath. “There’s something we have to talk about.”

-

The Pig is there, familiar under him. The engine growls, overeager, and shakes the seat against his thighs. Everything is familiar. The black streets of Henrietta, the neon lights of storefronts that never bother to turn off their signs. Even the fear is familiar, which is the worst thing. The knowledge of death, as real inside him as it’s ever been. It never leaves. He’s grown used to pushing it down, keeping it a tight little knot in the pit of his stomach. It’s part of his morning ritual; he can do it while he’s brushing his teeth. Breathe through his nose and tell himself it doesn’t matter, he can’t do anything about it anyway, if he dies today it’ll all be fine.

Except now he will die today, or maybe tomorrow, or in a week, _soon_ , and it’s not fine. That’s the other worst thing. That after all this time, it still chills him down to his teeth. It makes him furious.

The voice on his phone tells him to turn left in five hundred feet. Gansey barely pays attention.

Most of him is static, whited out by the impossibility of feeling what’s inside him. The part that gets through is the little insistent voice that Gansey hates most, the one that’s responsible for most of his fights with Adam: What is going to happen to Ronan after he dies? Who is going to make sure he does his homework? How can he buy Adam gelato on the rare occasions when Adam lets himself have something nice? Should he have set up a gelato fund with his parents’ lawyers? How many people will be left who will be able to see Noah? Who is going to keep Ronan and Declan apart; what if Declan comes to his funeral and Ronan starts something? Who is Blue going to call late at night?

It’s just _worry_ , the kind of worry that’s dogged him throughout his entire worthless life. He can’t even dredge up any new emotions for this, the prophecy of his death. It’s just tiresome worry and fear all the way down. He hates it. His fingers tighten around the gear shift.

He blinks, and suddenly the phone is telling him _your destination is on the right_.

Aglionby kids in Aglionby houses. He sees it all with fractured sight now, him on one side, Blue/Adam on the other. It’s normal, but it’s also repulsive. Henry’s house has columns holding up the portico.

Adam knew that Gansey was going to die. Gansey had expected Blue to know, with her house full of magic and her inscrutable looks, but he didn’t expect Adam. Adam looked at the floor when Blue said it. Wouldn’t even look at Gansey. Because it was hard, the reasonable part of him said, but the rest of him burned with anger. Like it hadn’t been hard for Gansey to watch Adam get hurt over and over. Like he ever would have let fear or grief stop him from _talking_ to Adam about it. It’s not a fair comparison, he knows, he _knows_ , but that’s the point, nothing is fair and it’s all coming down on him at once.

Gansey’s legs feel oddly shaky as he gets out of the car. He’s almost died enough times to recognize the feeling of too much adrenaline. He’s floating half an inch out of his body, all his limbs moving strangely, the connection between his body and his neurons on a five-second delay.

Ronan didn’t know, that was clear. Ronan was the only one who was surprised. The first one to react after Blue said the words out loud: a sharp bark of laughter. When Gansey turned to him, he was tense as a stone wall.

 _That’s not funny_ , he said. Even at that moment, Gansey’s first instinct was to contain Ronan. His muscles twitched, ready to leap over and hold Ronan’s arm before he started smashing things.

But instead Ronan just hardened, clenching his fists and setting his jaw. His eyes darted from Blue to Adam to Noah.

“Gansey boy!” There’s a cordial whoop from his left, laced with expensive liquor. Gansey raises his hand in a wave, his mouth twisting into a smile on pure muscle memory. How drastic, he wonders, would circumstances have to be before this reflex is compromised? If he can still act like Richard Gansey when things are this bad, how bad would they have to _be_?

Blue had cried. “I’m sorry,” she said, although it wasn’t her fault.

“It’s okay,” Gansey told her, but it wasn’t okay, and the oddness of him saying it just made everyone stare at him more. But he wanted to say it. He wanted to half-laugh and put his hands up and say _I’m okay, it’s fine_ , and for a moment he hated everyone because he knew they wouldn’t believe him.

Here, at least, he can be lost in a crowd. He throws himself through the front door and into the party like diving into the club pool. The swell of Aglionby students closes around him, a comforting mass of beer smell and expensive deodorant. This place doesn’t require anything of him other than some friendly back-slaps and appropriately timed laughter. It is, as much as he loathes to admit it, his home.

-

He sees Cheng when he’s on his third drink. More accurately, Cheng sees him.

“Dick Gansey,” he says, grinning in completely unfeigned delight. “You came.” There are two vivid pink flushes right above his cheekbones. It makes the rest of his face look more pale than usual, oddly delicate in the dim light of the Cheng family basement. Dimmed, Gansey corrects himself, the lights are on a dimmer. Nothing here is shabby or less than intentional.

Gansey’s a lightweight. He knows it because Ronan’s laughed the words in his face every time they’ve shared a beer. (Ronan leaning into him, his drunken mass heavy against Gansey’s side, the sandpaper stubble of his shaved head rough against Gansey’s cheek—Gansey takes another swig of vodka-spiked Coke.) But he doesn’t feel the alcohol right now. Liquor is fire in his veins, and he is already burning himself inside out. He gives Henry a loose Aglionby smile. Henry’s wearing a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled up. The cuffs are as sharp as his cheekbones. He looks freshly pressed, even in this den of debauchery.

 _Den of debauchery_. That’s the kind of phrase Blue would scoff at.

“What are you drinking?” Henry says, and then before Gansey can even answer: “Let me get you another.”

Instead of doing it he pushes his own drink into Gansey’s hand. Beer, which Gansey doesn’t even like. There’s about an inch and a half left in the cup, so Gansey tilts his head back and chugs it. He hands the empty cup back to Henry.

Henry laughs. “Good man,” he says. He’s electric, sparking with good host vivacity.

Gansey wants to match him. He reaches a hand out and grasps Henry’s shirt cuff. “Got anything stronger?” he says, and he smiles the smile he uses when standing behind his mom as she gives a speech. Henry matches him watt for watt.

He disappears into the crowd for a moment and comes back with two shot glasses filled with clear liquid. He hands Gansey one—it’s warm, room temperature—and holds his arm up. Gansey tries to clink his glass against Henry’s, unsure what they’re doing, but Henry just laughs again. Gansey thinks Henry is probably a little drunk, but he doesn’t seem disoriented. It’s like the alcohol has just let him relax further into himself, becoming an even more Henry version of Henry. Gansey experiences an odd seizure in his chest, an emotion that he can’t place. He files it as jealousy, because most of his reactions to people being happy are jealousy.

Henry entwines their arms, pretzeling them together so they have to lean close to take the shots. A section of his forearm pushes up against Gansey’s, skin-to-skin. It warms Gansey more than the alcohol he’s consumed so far. His other hand is still gripping his red plastic cup of vodka and Coke. He looks at Henry’s smile and he feels dizzy. “Bottoms up,” Henry says.

The burn hits his chest like a firework. He expected vodka, but it’s sharper, tangier. He coughs and tries to cover his mouth but his arm is still tangled in Henry’s and he ends up stumbling against Henry’s chest.

“Easy,” Henry says, sliding a hand down to his elbow. _Easy_ , it is easy, everything seems easy for Henry, and Gansey wants to be a part of it. He remembers what Henry said the night he stopped to help him with the car, _you’re a champion_ , and he aches for it to be true. He wants the Gansey that he wears in public to be the real one. Fear is exhausting. He's always exhausted, and yet he can never sleep. He wants another shot of whatever it was.

“What is this?”

“Tequila.”

Henry’s hand is still on his elbow. Instead of stepping back, Gansey leans in closer, letting his fingers migrate up under Henry’s shirt cuff. He has, literally, absolutely nothing to lose.

“Cheng,” he says, his voice smooth as the tequila. “Why don’t you show me where the real party is around here?”

-

Gansey himself isn’t even sure what he was asking for: drugs? Hedonism? Clandestine secrets? But Henry seems to know, because he leads Gansey outside, his fingers loose around Gansey’s wrist. Every touch feels good. Gansey is feeling the alcohol now, especially in the heat on his skin whenever Henry’s fingers drag against it.

He’s not stupid. There may be dark places within him where he’s afraid to tread, but he knows what's lying there. He knows what the words are that he’s afraid to think. He understands what it means that there’s not a noticeable difference between the way he feels about Blue and the way he feels about, for example, Adam. And he understands about Henry too, the way Henry teases him: _Hey Gansey, walk off a magazine cover today? Dick, you ever plan to let the rest of us have any of the limelight? This asshole and his perfect hair, right?_ He gets it.

The alcohol makes him feel like he’s floating. He is going to die. He’s going to _die_ and he’s only kissed two girls after lackluster dates where he knew he talked too much about Glendower and he spent both of the kisses picturing how Ronan would make fun of him later. He’s going to die and right now he’s never felt more alive in his life. He wants to tear down a building.

Henry leads him through dark wet grass, past a stand of decorative trees with waxy leaves. The yard behind it is odd; it has a texture Gansey doesn’t understand, and he sways vaguely, his stomach swooping. It takes putting his foot in it to realize it’s water.

Henry laughs at him, but it’s good-natured. They’re standing at the edge of a pond, clearly man-made, in the middle of Henry Cheng’s expansive property. In size, it’s somewhere between a koi pond and a duck pond. Big enough that rowing from one side to the other would take some sweat. Plants—lilypads—darken the water in patches. Even for Aglionby, it’s excessive. Gansey lets out a low whistle.

“No marinas in the valley,” Henry says. “Dad has to live out his American dream _some_ how. Come on.”

Gansey sees now where Henry is leading him. There’s a little speedboat, just big enough for two people, upside down on the grass. He laughs in genuine delight.

“Well, you’re not a disappointment, Cheng, I can tell you,” he says. Henry smiles at him sideways. Gansey can still see how flushed his face is in the moonlight. Cheng is attractive in the effortless way of a catalogue model; his attractiveness is such an unquestionable fact it hardly needs to be acknowledged.

Gansey helps Henry turn the little boat over and ease it into the water. His head is swirling with boozey fog. Everything from earlier this evening seems very far away. It feels good to put his muscles into manhandling the boat. Feels good to fistbump Henry when they’re done, giddy with the accomplishment. Henry climbs in and brings the engine to life with a roar several notches grimier and louder than Gansey’s car. He holds a hand out to help Gansey in, and for a moment it’s so much like a romantic movie Gansey almost stumbles.

Henry guns the engine. It makes a satisfying rumble, a high-seas parody of a motorbike. They speed towards the center of the pond, Henry jerking the boat in zig-zags so it throws out arcs of white spray. The white noise fills Gansey’s head, and for a precious moment, the inside of his brain is absolutely silent.

Henry cuts the engine when they’re about halfway out and lets the boat drift behind a clump of trees on the pond’s edge. He reaches down with a slim hand and disengages a clinging lilypad stalk from the speedboat’s side.

Gansey thinks he should feel something—he thinks he knows what’s going to happen and maybe he should be nervous because this is it, this is the part where he has to confront this thing he’s avoided thinking about for so long—but he can’t think. That part of him is lost in tequila.

After the year he spent with Malory—the year in which Malory got to witness him having a panic attack in every conceivable location all over the United Kingdom—he learned something about fear. Time didn’t make Gansey less afraid of dying. What it did was make him numb. The way you can get used to a cold bath. That was Gansey, marinating in his fear until he barely noticed it.

That’s what’s happening now with this new promise of death. The panic is curled up quietly somewhere in his gut, waiting to seize him again, but for now he’s light as air. He watches as Cheng reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask.

“Top up?” Cheng says.

It’s a little chilly in the cold night air, which must be why Gansey’s fingertips are trembling. Words spill out of him, skipping over his brain on their way to his mouth.

“Is this what you do,” he says, “is this—your _move_? Boats and alcohol?”

Henry’s eyes widen for a moment, and then he laughs. Henry laughs easily in general. “Yeah, actually,” he says. “It kind of is. Is it working?”

It is. Henry’s eyes are dark and expressive, catching the moonlight in little flecks that appear and disappear when he cocks his head. Gansey shivers.

The words are still happening. “What makes you think,” Gansey says, “that I’m—you know—an acceptable target?”

“Might as well try,” Henry says, shrugging a shoulder. He jiggles the flask, offering it again.

Gansey grabs the flask and tips it back. Whatever’s in it burns the back of his throat. It takes a moment for him to identify it as rum. Mixing alcohols, he thinks, isn’t that something you’re not supposed to do, and then he remembers that he only knows that because he’d made a mental note to keep Ronan from doing it.

Ronan. The outside world breaks in just long enough for him to think _is Ronan okay right now, is anyone with him_ , and the last time he left Ronan alone Ronan wrecked his car. Ronan wrecked his car when Gansey was out participating in a world Ronan never wanted to participate in, and now Gansey’s going to die and no one is going to be the hand that lowers Ronan’s arm. Ronan is going to destroy the city, or worse, he’ll just destroy himself, and Adam won’t help, Adam’s always told Gansey to let Ronan clean up his own messes. He chokes on his second gulp of rum and thrusts the flask back at Henry, coughing harshly into his elbow.

His eyes are wet. It’s from the effort of coughing, but Gansey wants to cut that nonsense off before it gives his body any ideas.

Henry takes the flask and opens his mouth, already laughing again, probably about to make fun of Gansey for choking on liquor, but he stops when Gansey lunges forward to kiss him.

Gansey’s clumsy even without several drinks behind him. He stumbles a little on the way to Henry’s face, and as a result he falls forward, his mouth smashing into Henry’s with a force that hurts. Gansey grabs at air to steady himself and his hand winds up in Henry’s shirt. They crash into the kiss full-force. Henry grabs Gansey’s wrist with his long fingers and then Henry’s tongue is in Gansey’s mouth.

The sensations hit him in snapshots: his fingers touch the space right above Henry’s collarbone. Henry bites down on his lower lip. A noise escapes from Gansey’s throat. Henry’s body soaks him with warmth and Gansey presses himself against it. Henry cups the back of his head.

Gansey can’t breathe, but he can’t stop. He swallows air when their mouths part and then goes under again. Henry slides one hand down to his elbow and tugs on his hair with the other. Gansey wants Henry to touch him more, to overwhelm him so he can stop thinking. He wants to burn up entirely.

“I’ve never,” he gasps out, and then stops and clenches his fingers in Henry’s shirt. _Kissed a boy_ , but he doesn’t want to say that, it’ll make things weird. But he hasn’t and it’s _good_ and the alcohol pounding through his neural circuits means he doesn’t have to think about what that means.

“Never what,” Henry says. His lips brush Gansey’s mouth as he talks, and Gansey shivers. He is, he notices distantly, well on his way to an erection.

“I don’t know,” Gansey says, and then: “Do you—is this—what happens now?”

“Whatever you want,” Henry says. There’s a smile in his voice.

What Gansey wants is not to be afraid anymore. He wants the whole world of things he’s always been afraid of to open up to him. He clings to Henry’s shirt with both fists, feeling useless.

“Can I,” he says, and then stops again. A wave of unsteadiness rocks him; possibly it’s just the boat.

“I'm up for anything,” Henry breathes. “Christ, Gansey—you have to _know_ you’re the hottest guy in school.”

Horribly, Gansey’s first instinct is to feel defensive on behalf of Adam and Ronan. He knows there’s something smooth and winning to be said in response, and he can feel it floating around in his brain, but he can’t quite get there. He kisses Henry again instead, his neck flushing with heat. He's grateful for the straightforwardness of sexual activity, of mouths and hands. There's nothing to misinterpret or misspeak.

Henry said _anything_ , but what Gansey wants is for Henry to take over so he doesn't have to decide. As soon as he thinks it, the thought is overtaken by a rush of self-loathing that crunches up his insides. _Weak_ , he thinks, fearful, nervous Gansey, and more than that, it's not true. Gansey knows what he wants, for maybe the first time ever.

He grabs the flask and takes another swig, letting the heat spread through him. Then he slips off the little bench that provides the only seating, falling to his knees on the floor. The movement rocks the little boat, and even once the motion stops it takes Gansey's head a moment to catch up. The boat's floor is damp, grime soaking through the knees of Gansey's khakis.

"Yeah," Henry says. He sounds drunk too, Gansey notices, and Henry's unsteadiness bolsters him. He puts his hands on Henry's knees. Henry opens them a little, lets his head fall back. If he wasn't expecting this, he's at least done it before. Gansey is determined not to betray his inexperience.

He fumbles with the button on Henry's fly, his fingers unexpectedly clumsy. The critical part of Gansey is well aware that this, too, can be part of his charm; if he knocks over a glass with his elbow at a fundraiser he knows exactly what kind of sheepish smile to flash and which self-deprecating tone to take on when he says, "Now you see why my mother trusts my _sister_ with organizing these events." The thought connects somewhere in his mind: this, right here, with Henry, this is his world. Henry is a rich Aglionby kid, and despite his inexperience in this department, Gansey can handle Aglionby kids. He looks up at Henry and says tragically, "Your fly is defeating me."

Henry laughs. From this angle, the moonlight throws shadows across his face underneath his cheekbones. His mouth looks extremely kissed. Gansey's body is alive and hypersensitive. Henry buries a hand in his hair, affectionate, and says, "Let me."

He undoes his pants and shimmies them down past his knees. Gansey has a moment to feel breathless at the proximity of Henry's black boxer briefs before Henry hooks his thumbs in his waistband and pulls them down too, with a confidence Gansey can only marvel at.

When Henry sits down again, his junk is level with Gansey's face. Henry's half-hard, which pleases Gansey in a visceral way he's almost embarrassed by. Something urgent smolders in the pit of his stomach. His chest is tight with anticipation. He's not sure if the liquid burn in his veins is alcohol or just him, but it urges him on, making him feel heated all over.

"Is that easier for you?" Henry says, amused.

"Much," Gansey says, matching his smooth tone. His pulse thudding, he reaches up and wraps his hand around Henry's dick. The approving noise Henry gives him is immediately satisfying. Gansey swallows, working up the nerve, and then leans forward and puts his mouth around the tip.

Henry's dick jumps on his tongue. Gansey's heart skips a beat. He closes his eyes and fits as much as he can into his mouth, feeling Henry's thigh muscle twitch under his hand. Gansey thinks of what he must look like, on his knees with his face between Henry's legs. He can feel his pulse beating in his groin. He goes down a little more, relaxes his throat, overwhelmed by how hot Henry's dick is in his mouth, how intimate this feels. How real. His throat contracts around Henry's dick, and Henry lets out a quick, startled breath. Gansey loses concentration for a instant and gags, pulling away. He swallows, recovering.

He half expects Henry to laugh again, but when he looks up, Henry's face is startlingly open. His dark eyes are wide, his lips parted. Gansey wonders how many times Henry has actually done this before. It seems equally possible that Gansey could be his second or his one hundredth. Probably everyone at Aglionby has a public face and a private face, but Henry's public face is so impassable, Gansey can't even begin to imagine what might be under it. The events of the evening come back to him: Henry descended on him from nowhere, gave him alcohol, and led him right out to his private pond. It had seemed like a coincidence for a bad idea to present itself just when Gansey was looking for one. Now he's unsure, watching the way Henry suddenly licks his lips, a nervousness Gansey's never seen on him before.

"What are you waiting for?" Henry whispers. With his head tilted down, the moonlight no longer reflects in his eyes. Gansey shakes his head a little and turns his attention back to the task at hand, squeezing the hand that's wrapped around Henry's dick. Henry lets out a soft exhale.

Gansey's glad for the haze of unreality from the alcohol, because he's not sure he'd be able to do this otherwise. And he wants to. He leans forward and swirls his tongue around the head of Henry's dick, his pulse hammering with uncertainty. He's never even received a blowjob, but he knows how it's supposed to go from porn, so he fits Henry's cock back into his mouth and tries to bob up and down, to suck in a rhythm. The little boat shifts with his motions. So does Henry, his hips rocking into Gansey's mouth, little movements that make Gansey feel incredibly pleased with himself.

Henry's breath comes in puffs, out when Gansey pulls back, a sharp intake in when he goes down. It's intoxicating. Gansey slows down, moving more deliberately, sinking a little deeper. He's so turned on it's almost painful, and he thinks: _giving a blowjob really turns me on._ It's a brand new piece of information. The realization makes him giddy, and he draws back to lick his lips before going down again. His jaw is starting to hurt, but Henry is hot and hard in his mouth and Gansey feels like he was made for this. He shuts his eyes tight, squeezing the hand wrapped around the base of Henry's dick, his pulse fluttering in his throat. He's unsteady from alcohol, but this is maybe the realest thing that's ever happened to him. There's nothing artificial or preplanned, there's just _a dick in his mouth_ and he needs to touch himself soon or he'll die.

"Gansey," Henry says—his voice trips halfway through and Gansey nearly moans out loud. "I'm—fuck—"

Gansey feels a pull at the back of his head; Henry's twisted his fingers into his hair and is pulling him off, curling over, coming. Gansey's still pressed up against him so most of it gets on his face, hot and embarrassing in a way that makes him ache. For a fleeting instant he wonders, savagely, what Blue and Adam would think. He can't seem to catch his breath. Henry's grip on his hair is so tight it brings tears to his eyes. Gansey digs his fingers into the meat of Henry's thigh, holding on for his life.

After a few feverish moments, Henry straightens and loosens his grip on Gansey's head. Gansey immediately reaches up to wipe his face with the back of his hand, too humiliated to meet Henry's eyes until he's more presentable. He can still feel the stain drying on his cheek. He feels _debauched_. His heartbeat won't slow down. The taste of salt and skin lingers in his mouth. Oh _god_.

"C'mere," Henry mumbles. He tugs on the collar of Gansey's polo. Gansey's half-worried he's going to cream his chinos if he so much as moves, but he lets Henry pull him back up onto the little bench. Henry cups his hands around Gansey's face and kisses him hard, bites at his lower lip. Gansey does make a noise then, involuntary, muffled by Henry's mouth. Henry lets go of his face and fumbles at his waist, trying to open his fly with one hand. Gansey grips Henry's shoulders, scared that he might fall off into the water if he doesn't steady himself.

Henry draws back, giving up on kissing Gansey while getting his pants open, and gets his fly down. He shoves his hand down Gansey's briefs before Gansey even has time to prepare himself. Gansey cries out, soft, and curls forward against Henry's chest. Henry wraps an arm around his back, holding him as he jerks him roughly. Gansey's so turned on it only takes a few strokes before everything tightens and he comes hard, shaking in Henry's arms.

Henry cups his hand around the head of Gansey's dick to contain the damage. The soft skin of his palm right where Gansey is most sensitive causes Gansey to jerk again and again, his body contracting whenever Henry's hand comes into contact with him. It takes a long time for the shaking to subside. At some point Gansey becomes aware that he's still gripping Henry's shoulders. Henry's hand is splayed flat on his back, rubbing little circles with his thumb. It's so intimate that Gansey wants it to last forever, and then in the very next instant he doesn't want to be here anymore. Henry's arms are a prison. He pushes away, feeling a little nauseous. The boat sways.

"Good?" Henry says. The smile is back in his eyes. It's his version of Gansey's politician face, but entirely different: Gansey's demeanor is meant to look open and forthcoming, whereas Henry always looks like he's hiding something.

"Yeah," Gansey says. His voice is hoarse. He does feel good, his body drained, all his nervous energy quieted. But there's a panic attack coming; he can sense it, the way animals know when rain is approaching. Not right now, but later, when he's back in his own head and remembers that he sucked off the head of the yearbook committee. It makes him internally blush to apply such a vulgar expression— _sucked off_ —to himself, but it exhilarates him too. Exhaustion weighs down his limbs like lead. He wants more alcohol so he can ward off the moment when his actions will start to matter again. He vaguely hopes Henry will offer him the flask once more, but Henry's busy tucking himself back into his jeans.

When he looks back up at Gansey, the odd flash of vulnerability is entirely gone. "Don't know why that took us so long to get around to," he says.

Gansey wonders, fuzzily, what Henry thinks is happening here. Reality is crowding back in on him. He needs to chase it off with booze or sleep or both. "Let's go back," he says.

"Sure." It takes Henry a moment to drag his gaze from Gansey, and Gansey's not sure Henry wants to go back. But in the next instant Henry says, "Your boyfriends wondering where you are? I couldn't believe you showed up without Lynch, at least." His voice is so smooth that Gansey's sure any discomfort was in his imagination. Within seconds the moment is lost to the vodka-tequila-rum haze.

"Ha ha," Gansey says dryly. "I'm gay and my friends are my boyfriends. What an original joke."

"I didn't say you were gay," Henry says lightly. He ignites the engine and starts turning the boat, angling its nose away from the little copse they've fetched up in. "I've seen you with that townie girl. You're like me. Equal opportunity."

The jerk of displeasure at the words _like me_ are the first indication Gansey's ever had that he doesn't want to be _like Henry_. Not—sexuality-wise—he balks at the phrase even in his mind—but in other, more important ways. He's always wanted to be truer and more authentic than that. He doesn't know what he's doing here.

Henry presses his foot down and the boat springs forward, causing Gansey's stomach to clench up with nausea. Gansey presses his hands over his eyes. He wants to be at home in Monmouth, surrounded by his mint plants and cardboard models. Is he _equal opportunity?_ He can still feel the residue of Henry's come on his cheek. Everyone who's ever wanted to needle him has gone for Ronan and Adam first. How do they know exactly where his weak spots are? Why did he come here tonight?

"Hey, Dick." Henry's voice seems to reach him from far away. "You okay? Did I blow your mind?"

The correct response floats up in Gansey's mind—something like _I thought that was my job_ —but alcohol has him loose and fuzzy, and his voice trips out of his mouth and into his overheated palms: "I'm going to die."

"Tequila," Henry says knowingly, but Gansey's not listening. He realizes now that he always thought the fear would keep him safe. He's afraid of so many irrational things that the anxiety itself seems like a bellwether for irrationality. Surely something can't happen to him if he spends all his time dreading it. Somehow being here with Henry makes it realer, if only because this is not something a Gansey who wasn't going to die would have done. His chest squeezes tight, and for a moment he thinks he's going to have a panic attack right now, right here. But there's not enough alcohol in the world to make him forget to keep up appearances. He breathes deep, inhaling the scent of his own sweat, reassembling himself. _Come on, Gansey boy._ There are parts of his personality that can function entirely without his brain. Involuntary muscles, like those that govern the rhythm of his heart.

He straightens up as the little boat gently beaches itself on the grass. Henry leaps out and then holds a hand out to Gansey. He accepts it, giving Henry his blandest and least offensive smile. Henry pulls him out of the boat, and then Gansey helps Henry tip it over again on the lawn, his mind entirely blank.

As Gansey steps away from the boat, he stumbles a little over his own feet. Henry grabs his arm.

"Careful," he says. The warmth in his voice feels dangerous. "You can crash here tonight, if you want."

Gansey straightens up, holding himself in a way that makes Henry drop his grip. He closes himself up, arranging his most polite and distant expression on his face. "That's very kind of you," he says. "But I think I should be getting home." As soon as he says it, he means it, with a fervor that surprises him. Earlier in the evening, the thought of being surrounded by his familiar knick-knacks and belongings—the accretions of a life that might be over soon—made him claustrophobic. Now it's the Aglionby party that feels too closed in. Gansey's not sure he's ready to see his friends, but he's ready to see his home.

Henry takes a moment too long to answer, and again Gansey wonders what he's like in private. "You shouldn't drive," Henry says finally. "Call one of your boyfriends. Come on. Let's go back to the house."

\--

By the time the Hondayota pulls up, the effects of the alcohol are wearing off a little. Gansey is sitting on Henry's portico, hugging his knees to his chest. The effort of keeping his anxiety contained is building up in his head, a pulsing pressure right below the skin of his temples. The Hondayota looks shockingly out of place among the sleek Aglionby fleet, despite Adam's meticulous care.

When the door opens, it's Blue who steps out. For a moment Gansey thinks he's hallucinating her, that she's manifested directly from his desire to see her. It's Blue's presence that's the most calming, maybe because Blue demands the least from him. But she catches sight of him and hurries over. Gansey doesn't know how to arrange his face or what he's supposed to do. He still hasn't figured it out by the time she throws her arms around him.

"Stupid, this is so stupid," she mutters into his ear. She hugs him tighter. Gansey's glad for the way his face is pressed into her shoulder so he doesn't have to react. "I can't believe you ran off to get drunk. _Raven boys_." Her body jerks against his, a tiny movement, and he realizes with a distant shock that she's crying.

"I'm okay," he says softly into the fabric of her jacket.

She doesn't answer. They both know his current condition isn't what's making her cry. Gansey is trapped by his inability to fix it. There is no room for him to be upset when Blue is crying on him. There is no room for him to be upset at this party either. There is no space big enough to contain Gansey's fear. He lets Blue hug him. When she pulls back, he's briefly struck by the urge to pull her back in, a childish feeling he used to get when his parents put him to bed at nighttime. He wants to hold onto her and never let go.

"Come on," she says. "You need to go home." He doesn't argue.

She half-pushes him over to the car, as if he's going to run away again. The truth is, he hasn't stopped wanting to run. It's just that he doesn't know where else to go.

Blue wipes her eyes self-consciously as she slides into the driver's seat. She ignites the engine and navigates down the long, tree-shadowed driveway.

Static murmurs from the Hondayota’s rickety stereo, Gansey feels more awake than he has all night. The memory of Henry’s bare skin flickers in his mind. It’s starting to matter.

"We don't know where Ronan is," Blue says abruptly. It takes a moment to reach Gansey, and then his eyes snap open wide, his spine straightening.

"What do you mean?"

"He left," Blue says. She's wearing her most practical face and voice, the one that says, _This problem is manageable._ It reminds Gansey forcefully of her mother. "A little after you did. He took off in his car and hasn't been back since. Adam's at home scrying to try to find him and Noah's at home babysitting Adam so he doesn't fall out of his own body."

 _At home_ , Gansey notices, not _at your place._ It thrills through him, a secret little joy. He puts his face in his hands again, cocooning himself in a little world of coolness and darkness.

It's almost a relief to worry about Ronan. The thought poisons him with guilt. But it's there, a lightness in the pit of his stomach: Ronan is doing something ill-advised, and Gansey's right here. Either they'll find Ronan, or Ronan will come back defensive and bristley, and either way Gansey is going to be there to fix it. Thank god for something simple like a Ronan Lynch problem.

Gansey's head spins. Everything in him lurches, violent, and for a moment he thinks he's about to vomit here in Adam's pristine car. Instead he feels wetness against his palms, and his stomach lurches again when he realizes it's tears. It must be the alcohol, because Gansey has weathered worse than this with a stiff upper lip in the past. The alcohol has him weak and enervated, his limbs shaky. His breath catches in his throat, too silent to be a sob, but Blue notices anyway.

"Gansey," she says. Her voice has changed. Gansey wants her to go back to being ruthlessly practical.

He feels the car slow and then come to a stop. Blue's pulled over. He hears the mechanical sound of her shifting the car into park, feels the car settling down into its wheel wells. Hears the click of a seatbelt unlatching. Then Blue's arms are around him again, her face pressed into the back of his neck. "Sorry I didn't tell you," she says, her voice very small.

 _It's okay,_ Gansey wants to say, or _I think I knew._ Something burns in his throat. He presses his fingers against his eyelids like he can push the tears back in. He says, "Blue. We're supposed to—fall in love—aren't we?"

"I think so," Blue says against the back of his neck. Her breath is warm and uncomfortably damp. Gansey wants to kiss her. Every detail he notices about her hurts deep within his ribcage.

"I can't," he says. "I mean, not that I don't—but I _can't._ I—don't play favorites. I wouldn't be able to choose one of you."

If he is— _equal opportunity_ —then it makes sense. He loves Blue and he loves all of them. He couldn't choose to be with only one of them. He couldn't choose to lose any of them, and he knows very well that the ley line—Glendower—can't spare one life without taking another. Or take one life without sparing another, for that matter.

He doesn't think, _if one of us is going to die, it has to be me_. Because one of them has already died. Gansey is going to make sure that if only one of the two of them can come out of this alive, it's Noah.

"I don't think that's what _fall in love_ means," Blue says into his hair.

Gansey doesn't know how to make her understand. "I'm drunk," he says.

Blue doesn't answer. She waits until Gansey shifts before she lets go. He breathes through his nose and composes his face before he drops his hands, blinking away the wetness on his eyelashes.

He can face this. He's done it before. Right now, they need to find Ronan.

"Okay," he says. "Let's go home."

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed this please consider [reblogging it](http://iwillbeyourhands.tumblr.com/post/142326904732/fic-if-the-door-opens-up-well-go-where-it-leads)!


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